"Then why?"

I responded although I was somewhat distracted by my previous pasta-fail as well as my current attempt, which was also shaping up to be a past-fail. "She is so easy to like. She's brave and sweet and smart. She's also illegal levels of cute, that smile of hers could melt metal. And she's important to . . ."

I swallowed the end of the sentence, realized a little too late what I'd been about to say. I tucked my chin to my chest and redoubled my effort to focus on the ricotta cheese.

"Yes. She is very important to Nico. That's true."

I discerned the teasing behind Rose's words, and I struggled against the heat of embarrassment. Luckily, Angelica chose that moment to reappear. She held her hands out in front of her as though to prove she'd washed them.

Surprisingly, Rose said no more about my slip, and we spent the rest of the time in light-hearted conversation. Angelica had a great time laughing at my sad attempts to make the pasta. Most of my shells ended up torn, wonky, or in the trash; regardless, Rose was patient and kind and kept the red wine flowing. I may have purposefully disfigured a few of my attempts in order to sustain Angelica's giggles. She had a great laugh.

We were feeling pretty happy and loose by the time dinner ended. I cut myself off at two glasses around five thirty, conscious of Angelica's looming infusion.

After the treatment I stayed for Monday movie night. But halfway through the movie-Angelica's current favorite, The Secret of Kells-the distinct sound of someone messing with the lock of the front door made my stomach cramp in fear. I stiffened and stood, placed my finger on my lips to silence Rose and shook my head.

Nico wasn't due back until the next day.

If it were a guard they would have announced themselves. I felt an immediate and fierce surge of protectiveness for both Angelica and Rose.

"Call Quinn," I whispered to Rose. "Tell him there is someone trying to get in the apartment."

After the envelope left at the hospital I felt certain that the fancy stalker had found her way into the building. I didn't know how she'd managed to get past all the security, but I knew I wasn't going to let her into the apartment. There was no way in hell she would have an opportunity to hurt Angelica or foxy Rose.

I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a cast-iron frying pan. As quietly as I could I tiptoed to front door and heard the bone-chilling sound of someone turning the lock. I tightened my grip on the pan, prepared to knock out the intruder.

The door swung open, I lifted the cast iron, and was met with the startled expression of Nico-wide eyes, hand on chest, audible gasp. He took a step back into the hall.

"Jesus, Elizabeth!" he breathed out, still gripping his chest. "You scared the shit out of me."

My arms fell to my sides, the pan to the floor, and I raced into his arms, hugging him tightly around the neck. "Ditto."

He hesitated a moment then returned my hug, holding me with equal force. "What the hell is going on? Is everyone okay? Where's Angelica? Are you okay?"

I buried my face in his neck, inhaled. He smelled like his cologne and mint. Faintly I registered that the scent of cigarette smoke was missing.

"You weren't supposed to be home until tomorrow!"

"I caught an earlier flight." His hand rubbed circled over my back.

"Oh god! I thought you were the fancy stalker."

His hand stilled. "Fancy stalker? Wait-what-"

"Uncle Nico!" Angelica's small voice carried to my ears, and I released my strangle hold on his neck. I stepped out of his embrace, which he reluctantly allowed, and shuffled to the end of the entry way, giving his niece plenty of space to welcome him home.

I stood at the end of the hallway and watched the homecoming ritual unfold, tried to calm my frayed nerves while avoiding eye contact with both Rose and Nico.

Angelica was embraced first.

"I missed you, Uncle Nico." Her typically diminutive voice sounded unusually fervent.

"I missed you too, muffin." Came Nico's muffled response, his face obscured by her mop of hair. After a long moment Angelica pulled away and smoothed her hands over his cheeks. Nico proceeded to ask about her day, about the status of her dolls, about the antics of Pinky Pie on My Little Pony.

Next, still casting stern looks in my direction and still holding Angelica with one arm, he hugged Rose and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She returned his kiss then inspected his face and clothes.

"Are you eating anything at all in New York?"

"Yes, Ma."

"What are you eating? Not much, that's what. You'll come in and eat now."

"I already grabbed something at the airport." Nico glanced at the ceiling, but then his gaze snagged on mine, he frowned.

"That's not food, Niccolo. You'll eat again. Elizabeth and I made ravioli," Rose said.

"That's not true. Rose made ravioli. I watched." I held my hands up.

"No." Angelica rested her head on Nico's shoulder and gifted me a small grin. "You did make some, but they all went in the trash."

Feeling a bit calmer, I wrinkled my nose at her. She laughed.

Rose exhaled loudly and took Angelica from Nico's arms. "I'm not going to stand here and argue about the ravioli when Nico should be eating it instead. And you," she held Angelica close, "should be in bed." Rose turned and winked at me as she carried Angelica out of the entryway.

Nico watched his mother and niece depart then his eyes found and held mine. We stared at each other, as was our habit, and I realized how deeply I'd missed seeing him. He reentered my life a few weeks ago, we spoke on the phone every day for the last five days, and he'd only been gone a week, but I missed him. I held my hands clasped in front of me, my fingers wound tightly together, to keep from blurting out the truth of it.

"Hi friend." His voice was both teasing and concerned.

"Hola amigo."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

I returned his interrogating stare with an ashamed, evasive, shifty eyed, stalling-shrug. "Sure . . . But first, you should probably get something to eat-"

"No, Elizabeth." His face was suddenly granite. "Did she come back? Did she approach you?"

I was caught. "She didn't approach me. But she did show up today."

He cussed. His voice rose, and he checked himself, pulled his hands through his hair, mussed it to perfection. I placed my hands on his forearms, pulled his attention and focus back to me; "Calm down. Just calm down-it was really nothing, okay?"

Nico's eyes searched mine, his expression wavering between fury and worry. Mimicking the force of my earlier strangle hold; he abruptly pulled me into his arms. "I want to lock you up. I want to put you in a safe, and only I'll have the key."

I felt his heart hammering against his chest. It was my turn to draw circles on his back, thread my fingers through his hair, and rub his neck.

"Hey, now . . . Everything is fine. Let me just tell you what happened, okay? It's not that bad."

"Elizabeth, you were about to knock me out with a frying pan. I saw the fear in your eyes. Don't tell me it's not that bad."

I waited a beat then said, "It's not that bad."

He released a nervous laugh, and I smiled into his chest, pushed slightly against him so I could see his eyes. "I'll tell you everything. Just come in and eat something first. Have some wine."

He regarded me warily, but finally nodded his assent. He tucked me under his arm, and we walked to the dining room table, left his single small satchel by the front door. Rose had very efficiently set out a place for him piled high with ravioli, focaccia, and sauteed sunflower leaves. My mouth started to water even though I was still full from my earlier pig out.

We sat in silence for a while then I filled the quiet with mundane questions about his day, told him briefly about my day, Angelica's treatment. He drank three glasses of wine in rapid succession, his dark eyes growing more liquid with each glass.

I waited till he seemed somewhat relaxed-which was not at all relaxed, but no longer on the verge of murdering someone-then told him of today's strangeness.

He listened, fingering the stem of his wine, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. I noted that his jaw flexed and his temple ticked a few times.

When I finished I met his gaze; his eyes resembled hot coals. I could tell he was trying very hard to keep his temper in check.

"This is so fu-" His voice was lethally low; he caught himself before he could finish the word. "We have to find a way to keep her away from you."

I nodded. "Dan will be following me around the clinic from now on so I'll have a guard with me at all times."

His jaw ticked again. "I know this woman. She is dangerous."

"Nico . . . Who is she? Is she the one you mentioned before?"

"Yes. I met her at a club, that night, when she put her hands down my pants and I-" Nico stood abruptly and walked away from the table.

I followed him. "Why do you think she is dangerous?"

He spun on me. "Because she attacked one of the dancers on my show."

I stepped back. "Oh . . ."

"Yeah. Oh."

"Why isn't she in jail?"

"She was in jail, for two years. She was released last year."

"Why did she attack the dancer?"

"Because I was dating her."

I took another step back, felt like I'd been slapped. "Oh."

He studied me. An extremely uncomfortable moment passed. I concentrated on breathing.

Nico shifted his weight, placed his hands on his hips. "I don't do that anymore."

"What?"

"Date the dancers. It was only the one time."

I nodded, wanted to tell him it was none of my business, but couldn't seem to get the words past my throat. I hated that he'd been looking for girl C.

Instead I turned and called over my shoulder, "Come back to the table and finish your dinner."

Nico followed me back to the table. I poured him another glass of wine and took the seat adjacent to his, fiddled with the napkin. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn't return his gaze.

"Hey, what are you thinking about?" Nico placed his hand over mine, drawing me out of my thoughts.

I pulled my hand away and tucked loose strands of hair behind my ears. I really needed to re-braid my hair. In fact, I really needed a makeover. For the first time in a long time I felt like maybe I needed to try a bit harder putting myself together; maybe doing my hair would be a good idea, or wearing makeup, or growing four inches.

"I was just thinking that if we were at your family's restaurant right now skeevy Frank Sinatra would be playing on the jukebox."

"Skeevy Frank Sinatra? Frank Sinatra isn't skeevy."

"You have to admit, he was kind of a jerk-him and his dumb women." I felt strangely argumentative, hot, annoyed.

"What do you have against Frank Sinatra?"

"He just seems like the poster boy for chauvinistic men-that is until you came along with your show and picked up the torch."

Nico's eyes flickered over my features; he openly studied me, his gaze lost most of its warmth in favor of cool annoyance. After a prolonged moment he wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed it on the table, leaned forward on his elbows such that we were just a few inches apart. "Frank Sinatra once said, 'I like intelligent women. When you go out, it shouldn't be a staring contest.'"

I scratched my chin. "I've never heard that quote before."

"That's because you don't know anything about Frank Sinatra. Just like you don't know anything about my show."

"I know you have bimbos dancing around in bikinis." I felt better and worse as soon as the words were out of my mouth. The gathering thickness in my throat and my sudden irrationality reminded me of our conversation earlier in the week, when we'd discussed his girl B.

"No. I don't." His features darkened. He looked honestly wounded.

"Really?" I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair. "So those women, they're not wearing bikinis? Or are they robots? Automatons? Fembots?"

"No. They're women and they're wearing dance costumes. But they're not bimbos."

I snorted. "Right."

He shook his head. "They happen to be very bright, very intelligent women."

"Who all happen to look like the freaks of nature also known as supermodels."

"Not all of them look like supermodels. In fact, maybe only one looks like a supermodel."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Really, unless you consider yourself a supermodel. Erin, who is a graduate of Columbia with a degree in physics, is shorter than you are. Tamara is about your height and has a master's in Russian literature from Brown."

I squirmed in my seat and fiddled with the hem of my scrubs. "You only hire college graduates?"

"No. Cassandra, our lead choreographer, doesn't have a college degree. But she's a great dancer and a great mom. I'm also her oldest son's Godfather. So you can imagine how it upsets me when you refer to her as a bimbo."

I tore my bottom lip between my teeth; my eyes were caught by his disappointed, frustrated scowl.